The History of Pendennis, Volume 2

by William Makepeace Thackeray

  CHAPTER XXV.

  PHILLIS AND CORYDON.

  On a picturesque common in the neighborhood of Tunbridge Wells, LadyClavering had found a pretty villa, whither she retired after herconjugal disputes at the end of that unlucky London season. MissAmory, of course, accompanied her mother, and Master Clavering camehome for the holidays, with whom Blanche's chief occupation was tofight and quarrel. But this was only a home pastime, and the youngschool-boy was not fond of home sports. He found cricket, and horses,and plenty of friends at Tunbridge. The good-natured Begum's house wasfilled with a constant society of young gentlemen of thirteen, who ateand drank much too copiously of tarts and Champagne, who rode races onthe lawn, and frightened the fond mother; who smoked and madethemselves sick, and the dining-room unbearable to Miss Blanche. Shedid not like the society of young gentlemen of thirteen.

  As for that fair young creature, any change, as long as it was change,was pleasant to her; and for a week or two she would have likedpoverty and a cottage, and bread and cheese; and, for a night,perhaps, a dungeon and bread and water, and so the move to Tunbridgewas by no means unwelcome to her. She wandered in the woods, andsketched trees and farm-houses; she read French novels habitually; shedrove into Tunbridge Wells pretty often, and to any play, or ball, orconjuror, or musician who might happen to appear in the place; sheslept a great deal; she quarreled with mamma and Frank during themorning; she found the little village school and attended it, andfirst fondled the girls and thwarted the mistress, then scolded thegirls and laughed at the teacher; she was constant at church, ofcourse. It was a pretty little church, of immense antiquity--a littleAnglo-Norman _bijou,_ built the day before yesterday, and decoratedwith all sorts of painted windows, carved saints' heads, giltScripture texts, and open pews. Blanche began forthwith to work a mostcorrect high-church altar-cover for the church. She passed for a saintwith the clergyman for a while, whom she quite took in, and whom shecoaxed, and wheedled, and fondled so artfully, that poor Mrs. Smirke,who at first was charmed with her, then bore with her, then wouldhardly speak to her, was almost mad with jealousy. Mrs. Smirke was thewife of our old friend Smirke, Pen's tutor and poor Helen's suitor. Hehad consoled himself for her refusal with a young lady from Claphamwhom his mamma provided. When the latter died, our friend's viewsbecame every day more and more pronounced. He cut off his coat collar,and let his hair grow over his back. He rigorously gave up the curlwhich he used to sport on his forehead, and the tie of his neckclothof which he was rather proud. He went without any tie at all. He wentwithout dinner on Fridays. He read the Roman Hours, and intimated thathe was ready to receive confessions in the vestry. The most harmlesscreature in the world, he was denounced as a black and a mostdangerous Jesuit and Papist, by Muffin of the Dissenting chapel, andMr. Simeon Knight at the old church. Mr. Smirke had built his chapelof ease with the money left him by his mother at Clapham. Lord! lord!what would she have said to hear a table called an altar! to seecandlesticks on it! to get letters signed on the Feast of SaintSo-and-so, or the Vigil of Saint What-do-you-call-'em! All thesethings did the boy of Clapham practice; his faithful wife followinghim. But when Blanche had a conference of near two hours in the vestrywith Mr. Smirke, Belinda paced up and down on the grass, where therewere only two little grave-stones as yet; she wished that she had athird there: only, only he would offer very likely to that creature,who had infatuated him, in a fortnight. No, she would retire; shewould go into a convent, and profess, and leave him. Such bad thoughtshad Smirke's wife and his neighbors regarding him; these, thinking himin direct correspondence with the bishop of Rome; that, bewailingerrors to her even more odious and fatal; and yet our friend meant noearthly harm. The post-office never brought him any letters from thePope; he thought Blanche, to be sure, at first, the most pious,gifted, right-thinking, fascinating person he had ever met; and hermanner of singing the chants delighted him--but after a while he beganto grow rather tired of Miss Amory, her ways and graces grew stalesomehow; then he was doubtful about Miss Amory; then she made adisturbance in his school, lost her temper, and rapped the children'sfingers. Blanche inspired this admiration and satiety, somehow, inmany men. She tried to please them, and flung out all her graces atonce; came down to them with all her jewels on, all her smiles, andcajoleries, and coaxings, and ogles. Then she grew tired of them andof trying to please them, and never having cared about them, droppedthem: and the men grew tired of her, and dropped her too. It was ahappy night for Belinda when Blanche went away; and her husband, withrather a blush and a sigh, said "he had been deceived in her; he hadthought her endowed with many precious gifts, he feared they were meretinsel; he thought she had been a right-thinking person, he feared shehad merely made religion an amusement--she certainly had quite losther temper to the schoolmistress, and beat Polly Rucker's knucklescruelly." Belinda flew to his arms, there was no question about thegrave or the veil any more. He tenderly embraced her on the forehead."There is none like thee, my Belinda," he said, throwing his fine eyesup to the ceiling, "precious among women!" As for Blanche, from theinstant she lost sight of him and Belinda, she never thought or caredabout either any more.

  But when Arthur went down to pass a few days at Tunbridge Wells withthe Begum, this stage of indifference had not arrived on MissBlanche's part or on that of the simple clergyman. Smirke believed herto be an angel and wonder of a woman. Such a perfection he had neverseen, and sate listening to her music in the summer evenings,open-mouthed, rapt in wonder, tea-less, and bread-and-butterless.Fascinating as he had heard the music of the opera to be--he had neverbut once attended an exhibition of that nature (which he mentionedwith a blush and a sigh--it was on that day when he had accompaniedHelen and her son to the play at Chatteris)--he could not conceive anything more delicious, more celestial, he had almost said, than MissAmory's music. She was a most gifted being: she had a precious soul:she had the most remarkable talents--to all outward seeming, the mostheavenly disposition, &c. It was in this way that, being then at theheight of his own fever and bewitchment for Blanche, Smirke discoursedto Arthur about her.

  The meeting between the two old acquaintances had been very cordial.Arthur loved any body who loved his mother; Smirke could speak on thattheme with genuine feeling and emotion. They had a hundred things totell each other of what had occurred in their lives. "Arthur wouldperceive," Smirke said, "that his--his views on Church matters haddeveloped themselves since their acquaintance." Mrs. Smirke, a mostexemplary person, seconded them with all her endeavors. He had builtthis little church on his mother's demise, who had left him providedwith a sufficiency of worldly means. Though in the cloister himself,he had heard of Arthur's reputation. He spoke in the kindest and mostsaddened tone; he held his eyelids down, and bowed his fair head onone side. Arthur was immensely amused with him; with his airs; withhis follies and simplicity; with his blank stock and long hair; withhis real goodness, kindness, friendliness of feeling. And his praisesof Blanche pleased and surprised our friend not a little, and made himregard her with eyes of particular favor.

  The truth is, Blanche was very glad to see Arthur; as one is glad tosee an agreeable man in the country, who brings down the last news andstories from the great city; who can talk better than most countryfolks, at least can talk that darling London jargon, so dear andindispensable to London people, so little understood by persons outof the world. The first day Pen came down, he kept Blanche laughingfor hours after dinner. She sang her songs with redoubled spirit. Shedid not scold her mother; she fondled and kissed her to the honestBegum's surprise. When it came to be bed-time, she said, "_Deja!_"with the prettiest air of regret possible; and was really quite sorryto go to bed, and squeezed Arthur's hand quite fondly. He on his sidegave her pretty palm a very cordial pressure. Our young gentleman wasof that turn, that eyes very moderately bright dazzled him.

  "She is very much improved," thought Pen, looking out into the night,"very much. I suppose the Begum won't mind my smoking with the windowopen. She's a jolly good old woman, and Blanche is immensel
y improved.I liked her manner with her mother to-night. I liked her laughing waywith that stupid young cub of a boy, whom they oughtn't to allow toget tipsy. She sang those little verses very prettily; they weredevilish pretty verses too, though I say it who shouldn't say it." Andhe hummed a tune which Blanche had put to some verses of his own. "Ah!what a fine night! How jolly a cigar is at night! How pretty thatlittle Saxon church looks in the moonlight! I wonder what oldWarrington's doing? Yes, she's a dayvlish nice little thing, as myuncle says."

  "O heavenly!" here broke out a voice from a clematis-covered casementnear--a girl's voice: it was the voice of the author of _Mes Larmes_.

  Pen burst into a laugh. "Don't tell about my smoking," he said,leaning out of his own window.

  "O! go on! I adore it," cried the lady of _Mes Larmes_. "Heavenlynight! Heavenly, heavenly moon! but I most shut my window, and nottalk to you on account of _les moeurs_. How droll they are, _lesmoeurs!_ Adieu." And Pen began to sing the good night to Don Basilio.

  The next day they were walking in the fields together, laughing andchattering--the gayest pair of friends. They talked about the days oftheir youth, and Blanche was prettily sentimental. They talked aboutLaura, dearest Laura--Blanche had loved her as a sister: was she happywith that odd Lady Rockminster? Wouldn't she come and stay with themat Tunbridge? O, what walks they would take together! What songs theywould sing--the old, old songs. Laura's voice was splendid. DidArthur--she must call him Arthur--remember the songs they sang in thehappy old days, now he was grown such a great man, and had such a_succes?_ &c. &c.

  And the day after, which was enlivened with a happy ramble throughthe woods to Penshurst, and a sight of that pleasant Park and Hall,came that conversation with the curate which we have narrated, andwhich made our young friend think more and more.

  "Is she all this perfection?" he asked himself. "Has she becomeserious and religious? Does she tend schools, and visit the poor? Isshe kind to her mother and brother? Yes, I am sure of that, I haveseen her." And walking with his old tutor over his little parish, andgoing to visit his school, it was with inexpressible delight that Penfound Blanche seated instructing the children, and fancied to himselfhow patient she must be, how good-natured, how ingenuous, how reallysimple in her tastes, and unspoiled by the world.

  "And do you really like the country?" he asked her, as they walkedtogether.

  "I should like never to see that odious city again. O Arthur--that is,Mr.--well, Arthur, then--one's good thoughts grow up in these sweetwoods and calm solitudes, like those flowers which won't bloom inLondon, you know. The gardener comes and changes our balconies once aweek. I don't think I shall bear to look London in the face again--itsodious, smoky, brazen face! But, heigho!"

  "Why that sigh, Blanche?" "Never mind why."

  "Yes, I do mind why. Tell me, tell me every thing."

  "I wish you hadn't come down;" and a second edition of _Mes Soupirs_came out.

  "You don't want me, Blanche?"

  "I don't want you to go away. I don't think this house will be veryhappy without you, and that's why I wish that you never had come."

  _Mes Soupirs_ were here laid aside, and _Mes Larmes_ had begun.

  Ah! What answer is given to those in the eyes of a young woman? Whatis the method employed for drying them? What took place? O ringdovesand roses, O dews and wildflowers, O waving greenwoods and balmy airsof summer! Here were two battered London rakes, taking themselves infor a moment, and fancying that they were in love with each other,like Phillis and Corydon!

  When one thinks of country houses and country walks, one wonders thatany man is left unmarried.